


In My Dreams

by fanfiction_trashpile



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: and minority throughout, injury in the beginning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:47:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22093582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanfiction_trashpile/pseuds/fanfiction_trashpile
Summary: He’s a charmer. And you can’t want any part of it.
Relationships: Billy Russo/Reader
Kudos: 23





	In My Dreams

It hurt, getting stabbed.

No, hurt is the wrong word. It burned. It scorched a hole in your side, each inch the knife slid up through the tender flesh.

Needless to say, the feeling wasn’t pleasant.

Your hands feel for the wound. Just below your vest on your left side. You crumple to your knees, air wheezing out of your tired lungs without a sound. Your masked attacker suddenly falls next to you.

Finding the energy to look up, you see one of his partners, face covered by the same black fabric, lowering the gun that ended your would-be-killer’s life.

He salutes, and you instantly know who he is.

Billy Russo. Filthy rich with new money lining the pockets of his expensive suits. Your ally now that you are working to keep the Kandahar case under wraps.

You would say that you hate dirty soldiers, but now that you are one, it’s more difficult to judge.

Your money, the stuff you didn’t earn working under Wolf at Homeland, was due to the drug trade in Kandahar. You thought helping Rawlins would accelerate your career. It’s the one and only time in your life that you hadn’t asked questions, that you had just done what you were told. You hadn’t known it at the time, but now that you were implicated, knowledge of this could end your career. Frank Castle, the Punisher, was your only mission now. He didn’t know about you and wouldn’t come after you, so you were safe to pursue him. Unfortunately, that meant working with Billy. Not killing him right now, for instance, despite the gun resting by your knee.

This also meant working against Dinah Madani, who had been your friend in Afghanistan before her partner got killed. When the two of you got transferred to work in the New York, you knew you were going to be working against her at every turn.

Which would be why you’re in your tactical gear, bleeding out and caught between the job of your dreams and the shitty situation that Rawlins put you in.

Blood oozes through your fingers. As you fold over, your head grates against the concrete. You try to control yourself enough, control the pain enough, to stand. The last thing you remember is hearing Dinah yell.

When you open your eyes, you’re surrounded by white. The sickly smell of chlorine and cleaning supplies fills your nose. You groan as you shift, every part of your body sore.

A serious laceration to the abdomen, bruising across most of your body, your face cut in a few places and scratched up where you fell on it. A constant, throbbing pain seems ever-present in your bones.

Yeah. Not a pleasant experience.

It took them 6 hours to clear you. Interviews with cops. With Rafael. Your mom came to see you, to make sure you were alright.

A uniformed officer drops you off at your apartment. You manage to get into the elevator unassisted and, thankfully, alone, before you relax. 5 floors up, and you straighten your spine and put on a brave face. A ding. The door opens to an empty hallway. You breathe a sigh of relief.

Using the wall for support, you begin your slow shuffle down the hall. Bracing yourself on your doorframe, you turn your key and almost fall into your apartment.

Straight into the arms of Billy Russo.

He catches you just before you hit the floor.

“Why the fuck are you in my apartment?” you hiss as he helps you back to your feet.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Bullshit.”

He tries to wrap one arm around your waist, but you dig your fingernails in until he lets go. You catch yourself on the wall behind you, breathing heavily, and he shakes his head at your antics, “You are going to hurt yourself if you keep fighting me.”

He steps closer, and you let him.

Billy, his beautiful, deep eyes gazing into yours. His hands soft and gentle on your skin. Tracing up your arms. Across your shoulders. Down your sides to rest carefully on your hips. “These bruises…” he murmurs.

“Like you care.” You hiss, flinching at the effort it takes you. “You’re probably only here to do recon for Rawlins. Making sure I’m still alive? That I’m not going to tell Madani that you’re the one that killed Stein?”

“Lay down. Please.” He’s looking at you like he would look at one of his blueprints, analyzing, like you are some kind of problem he has to solve.

“What, to make your job easier?” it’s a low blow and you know it.

Shock plays across his usually-composed features, “You think I… If you think that I am going to prey on someone that can’t fight back, you’ve got me pegged completely wrong.” Anger, now. “Just because I kill people for a living doesn’t mean I have no honour. That’s worse than death. That’s…” he shakes his head. “When I get you into bed, love… and believe me, it’s going to happen. You can’t resist me forever.” His voice softens and slows, “When I get you into bed, it will be because you want to be there. And believe me, every single one of your neighbours is going to _know_ how much you’re enjoying having my—”

“Stop.” You try to push him off, but your hands pushing at his chest are like fighting against concrete. Immovable. Oddly firm…

“Lay down. I’ll change this bandage for you, and then I’ll leave. I promise.”

It’s not like you are in a position to say no.

You hold onto him, hating every moment of it, as he helps you into bed. Cradling your head as you painfully recline onto your pillow, his eyes almost look concerned. Kind.

You can’t let yourself be fooled. He’s a charmer. And you can’t want any part of it.

Lifting your shirt – and not removing it, you note – he peels back the tapped down gauze gently and disappears into the bathroom to discard it. You flinch at the cold air on your exposed wound.

“Holy fuck.” You grunt as he swipes a cleaning cloth around the opening and presses the new bandage in place, whispering apologies under his breath.

He fills up a glass from the tap for you, takes one last look around the room and nods, “I’ll go now. You have my number if you—”

“Don’t expect a call.”

He smiles, grabs his coat, and turns to leave.

“Russo.” You call.

He freezes but doesn’t turn back to look at you.

“Thanks.” You mutter.

You can almost hear the smirk in his voice when he says, “Anytime.”

Asshole.


End file.
